Sweet Surrender (16 page)

She swiped the salve on the affected area, then swathed the hand in a bandage. 

"You’ll work no more today," she declared.

The footman’s eyes widened with alarm, and he glanced nervously at Jackson.  "I can resume my duties."

"No," she countered.  "You’ve had a shock.  You’ll rest this afternoon, then for the next few days, you’ll only assist with easy chores."

"I’m hale and hearty," the footman complained, obviously panicked that he was about to be fired for slacking.

"Don’t worry about Mr. Scott," Grace said.  "He understands that you’ve been injured."  She spun to Jackson.  "Isn’t that right, Mr. Scott?"

Jackson couldn’t countermand her order without looking like an ogre, so he magnanimously agreed.  "Do whatever she advises for as long as she advises it."

"Thank you, sir." 

The man pushed himself to his feet and hurried away.  Grace called to his retreating back, "Keep the wound very clean.  A new bandage every morning and regular washing with soap."

"Yes, ma’am," he called in reply.

"Find me next week, and I’ll remove the stitches."

Then he was gone, and she turned to Jackson.

"Are you finished?" he asked, excited to whisk her away and have her all to himself.

"I suppose I could leave for a minute or two, but I spread the word that I’d be here until five o’clock.  I’ll need to come back shortly—in case anyone else is searching for me."

"I wouldn’t dream of delaying you," he lied.  He was incredibly vain, and he thought she should be eager to attend him.  He thought the whole world should be eager to attend him. 

He stood.  "Let’s take a walk."

As if he was an enormous burden, she sighed and stood, too. 

"If you insist."

"I
do
insist, and as you’re beginning to grasp, I always get my way."

"Only because people put up with you.  It’s too exhausting to refuse your pompous commands."

"Yes, it is."

He took her arm, delighted to have an excuse to touch her, and he escorted her through the kitchen and out the door to the garden.  He steered her down a groomed path, and as soon as they were shielded by the hedges, she pulled away.  But he simply took hold of her again.

"Don’t you know how to stroll with a gentleman?" he asked, his tone scolding.

"I know how.  I just don’t like us to be too cozy."

"Trust me: 
Cozy
is the last word I would use to describe how it feels to be around you."

She tried to pull away again, and he tightened his grip.

"Give over, Grace.  It’s pointless to fight me."

"Of course, it’s pointless, but that doesn’t mean I won’t protest your bullying.  I realize this will come as a huge surprise to you, but I like to have my own way, too."

"Women never get to have their own way.  It’s silly to imagine any sane man would let you."

"Men shouldn’t be in charge of anything.  You’re all buffoons."

"You have such a nasty view of my gender.  Dare I inquire as to how your opinion sunk so low?"

"Long and bitter experience with fools."

"Since I don’t include myself in that group, I demand that you reconsider."

"When I first met you, I saw you with your harem, Mr. Scott.  I don’t believe I’ll ever push that sight out of my mind."

"You’re ridiculously fussy, Grace, as well as unforgiving.  And you’re to call me Jackson when we’re alone."

"What is it, Mr. Scott"—she emphasized his surname, clearly having no intention of complying—"that you relish about heavy drink and loose doxies?"

"What sort of girl would better tickle my fancy?  Should I chase after debutantes who giggle and coo?"

"How about not drinking in the mornings and not chasing after trollops?  Has that idea ever occurred to you?"

"No, it hasn’t.  I’m determined to enjoy my life.  You should try a bit of amusement yourself.  You might be happier."

"I’m quite happy now, thank you very much."

"How long have you practiced healing?" he inquired.

"Since I was a child.  My parents died when I was young, and Georgina’s mother taught me her trade.  She was a midwife."

"You make a living at it?"

"When I can."  She peered up at him.  "You look surprised.  I don’t have a husband or family to take care of me.  Many women don’t.  You’d be amazed at how resourceful a desperate female can be."

"No, I wouldn’t.  By the way, I’m not an incompetent laggard."

"Aren’t you?"

"I had to forge my own path, too."

She snorted and glanced over at the magnificent mansion towering behind them.  "Poor thing," she sarcastically oozed, "you must have struggled so terribly."

"I ran away when I was eighteen.  I left on the spur of the moment, without a penny in my pocket."

"Did you?"

She appeared dubious, and suddenly, he was anxious to tell her all the paltry details of his sordid history.  But he managed to refrain with only the briefest recitation of fact.

"After I arrived in Egypt, it was years before my situation stabilized."

"And now, you’re fabulously wealthy?"

"Yes."

He’d been positive his bold announcement of earned affluence would awe her, but instead, she rolled her eyes.  "Oh, you men exasperate me.  Life is so easy for all of you."

He chuckled.  "You’re hard to impress, Grace.  You’re supposed to express concern for my past difficulties and flatter me for my thrift and drive."

"Don’t forget your brother’s title, your name, and a hefty dose of luck.  I imagine there was an enormous amount of luck involved in your success."

"I’ve always deemed myself to be preposterously lucky, so I guess I’ll have to agree with you."

There was a bench up ahead, and he guided her to it.  She sat without protest, and he sat, too, much nearer than he should have.  She scooted away, as far as she could go without toppling off the end, and he scooted with her, trapping her against the bench’s arm.

  The side of his body was touching hers all the way down, their hips and thighs crushed together.

She shifted and glared.  "If you’re hoping to misbehave again, you’re mad."

"Who’s misbehaving?  We’re simply tarrying in the garden and having a chat."

"I can see it in your eyes.  You’re intent on mischief."

"What if I am?  Would that be so awful?"

"After the other night in your bedchamber"—her cheeks flushed bright red—"I’ve specifically avoided you."

"Which is ridiculous, but then, I’ve repeatedly pointed out how absurd you can be."

"You’re determined to race to perdition."

"So?"

"I don’t wish to race along with you."

"Liar.  You’re fascinated about where we might find ourselves at the conclusion; you’re wild for me."

"I think you have it backwards.  You seem fascinated by
me,
when I have no idea why you would be."

"Don’t you?"

"No."

He pondered her comment, then shrugged.  "You correct:  I’m clueless as to why, but I’m enthralled."

"And insane," she added.

"A crazed man can’t be held accountable for his actions.  Even the law courts say so."

He bent in and kissed her as he’d been contemplating since their previous foray into passion. 

He had hazy, but riveting memories of that strange episode, and he suspected his powerful recollection had been skewed by his level of inebriation.  He assumed that if he kissed her again, the thrill would be gone, his infatuation tamped down by reality. 

But no.  He was more excited than ever. 

Why was he so intrigued by her?  Why had she captivated him?  He was a moth, and she was a flame, and he was eager to fly into the fire and burn himself to death.

His fingers were in her hair and tugging at the pins, so her lovely tresses would fall down her back.

"Jackson," she scolded, "let’s not do this.  Someone might come by."

"No one will see us."

"You don’t know that."

"If anyone approaches, we’ll hear their footsteps.  We’ll hurry into the bushes."

"We won’t hear them; we’ll be too preoccupied."

He grinned.  "Are you claiming I’ll thoroughly distract you?"

"Yes."

"Ha!  We’re making progress,
and
you called me Jackson."

"It slipped out."

"No, it didn’t.  I keep telling you:  You’re wild about me."

"You’re the most horrid influence."

"Aren’t I, though?"

He captured her lips again, deepening the embrace.  He was fumbling with the buttons on her dress, madly wanting to remove her clothes—right out in the open where discovery was always a possibility. 

Kissing they could hide.  Kissing they could abruptly halt.  But if he unbuttoned her dress, they couldn’t conceal their transgression.  For a reckless moment, he didn’t care.  When he was with her, he felt like a god, in charge of a world where there were no consequences.

But she was wiser than he.  She broke off their torrid kiss and shoved him away.

"Stop it," she groused, smoothing her bodice, her hair. 

"Only if you promise you’ll sneak to my bedchamber with me."

"It’s the middle of the afternoon!"

"Does that mean you’d agree if it was dark evening?"

"No, it means you make me forget myself.  You’re much too dissolute for my tastes.  You ignite my worst impulses."

"You have bad impulses?"

"Yes, as you’ve proven on several occasions."

She looked so stern, so abused, and so very, very pretty.  He’d planned to reach for her again, but a swift, irksome wave of fatigue washed over him.  Suddenly, he couldn’t lift his arms, and he was almost drunk with exhaustion.  He was so hot…

He gazed off across the park, disturbed to note a golden ring around his vision, which was a sure sign that he was about to suffer a bout of jungle fever.

In Egypt, he had a bevy of servants who knew how to tend him during the onslaught.  In England, he had no one and was completely unprepared for what was about to sweep him away. 

"Dammit," he muttered.

"What is it?  What’s wrong?"

She was studying him, her brow furrowed with concern, but he could barely see her.  He heard her voice, but it seemed to come from a lengthy distance.

"I don’t feel very well," he mumbled.

"You don’t look very well, either.  You’re very flushed."  She rested her palm on his forehead.  "Land sakes, you’re burning up."

"I was afraid I might be."

It was the last thing he recalled saying to her. 

He slid off the bench and onto the grass in a humiliating heap.  He thought she might have shouted, "Jackson!  Jackson!  What is it?  Tell me what’s happening?"

Too ill to reply, he shut his eyes and let the disease carry him away.  He’d endured it for years, and there was no other route to the end but straight through the middle.

CHAPTER NINE

"Will you be needing me, Miss Bennett?"

"No.  You may head to your room."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes.  It’s very late.  You go on."

Grace nodded to the door, urging the footman on his way. 

Over the past four days, the entire staff had been extremely solicitous.  With Jackson so ill, they’d immediately expected her to take charge.  And she had, but she assumed the servants had an ulterior motive for elevating her.

Everyone was terrified that Jackson might perish while in their care.  If he died, how would they explain it to his mother?  It was much better to blame a stranger, a newcomer.

The housekeeper had written to Beatrice Scott, informing her of Jackson’s situation.  As yet, they’d received no reply, but it was only a matter of time before Beatrice descended on the estate.  Grace had heard many awful rumors about the woman, and she had no illusions about what would happen when Beatrice arrived.

She wouldn’t welcome Grace, wouldn’t believe her story about Georgina, and Michael would bear the brunt of Beatrice’s disdain.  Grace hoped to have Jackson back on his feet prior to Beatrice’s carriage pulling up in the drive.

Let Jackson deal with her.

She probably should have taken Michael and Eleanor and fled when Jackson was incapacitated, but it wasn’t in her nature to abandon someone who was suffering. 

Milton Abbey had lulled her into complacency.  Life was easy at the estate, and she’d developed a burgeoning fascination for Jackson.  She hadn’t wanted to leave.  Disgusting as it was to admit, she was delighted by his attention and had caught herself speculating over the ramifications of their having an affair.